


Bully

by anniesburg



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Consensual Sex, Doggy Style, Drunk Sex, F/M, Implied Love Triangle, Mild Blood-Play, Mild Knife-Play, Pity-fuck Michal Bell today!, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Oral Sex, Smut, Unsafe Sex, Violence Mentions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-10-27 08:31:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17763353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anniesburg/pseuds/anniesburg
Summary: Micah Bell is a wild animal who pounces on every form of human joy he can find, if only to strangle it.





	1. Thoughtless

**Author's Note:**

> this was not, in any conceptual reality supposed to breach two thousand words. i hate myself.

He’s a bloodhound for weakness, the van der Linde gang’s own doubting Thomas who sticks his fingers into everyone’s wounds. He doesn’t allow for the bleed, he encourages it until there’s nothing left in you.

Woe to anyone who lowers their guard, who fails to hurl sarcasm and cruelty back in his face with equal vitriol. He’s unpleasant and the women’s shoulders tighten when he brushes by them, always too close. 

Micah slows his steps as he passes by you with the washing, catching your eye and seizing an opportunity. 

It’s a warm day, you’re tired. But you shift the basket in your arms and stop when he hails you.

“Miss,” he greets with his cloying tone. It’s so disturbingly fake. He’s wretched and you smile at him. 

“Mister Micah,” you return, keeping your gaze firmly fixed to his. To lower it, to look away would be to invite his ire. Instead, a thought pops into your head, a way to keep the conversation pleasant. “you mind swingin’ by the clothesline when you get a chance? I think I picked up one or two of your shirts while I was gathering’ the laundry, wouldn’t want you to think they just disappeared.” You sound chipper, bright under the hot, late-afternoon sun.

He never knows what to do when someone wants to talk to him, never knows how to spin it into an unforgettable jab. So he grunts, smirks. 

“You take it upon yourself to go through my personal effects very often?” He replies, recovering with too much ease and setting on a new path with the same goal.

Maybe he’d just hoped to distract you, occupy your time with uncomfortable conversation while you held a heavy wash basket aloft. The relation between his behaviour and bug taxidermists is striking. He wants nothing more than to pin something beautiful to the spot. But that plan seems hollow, now, surface-level annoying. He’s got proper ammunition, he could kiss you for giving it so freely. 

“Well, it is my job to---” you start but he’s not interested in your retort, letting you speak throws him off-balance. It reminds him that he’s not as universally loathed. There’s nothing on earth he dislikes more than a lack of control.

“Oh, I know. Far be it from me to keep a woman from doin’ her job,” he takes a step closer to you but you fail to recoil in disgust. His voice is hateful, sharpened like a knife “but if I find anything out of place---”

“You won’t,” you assert, squaring your shoulders. He has to wonder how you manage to hold up your head and the load at the same time. It would be impressive if it weren’t so pathetic. “I’ll ask you next time.” 

What you’d rather ask is why he feels a compulsive need to sabotage every act of kindness. There are so few hopes left for him. 

“You’d better. You’re new here, ain’t’cha?” He waits for your nod, that scheming look still plain on his face. “Right, well, I’ll clue you in. Dutch leaves it up to us when dealing with small offenders,”

Another step closer, but still no part of you shakes. Your breaths come slow and easy, he’s yet to truly disturb you and can’t wait to find out what you look like when he does. 

He wonders if you’re the type to hide it, to ignore him like Abigail. It’s never as fun that way, but still cute. Karen, though, she’s a stick of dynamite. Gets all red in the face and storms off. He hopes you’re like her. 

“I’d hate for you to find out how I punish thieves.” He’s close enough to unnerve the others that go about their business at camp, perhaps rightfully so. You can see Arthur over Micah’s shoulder, glaring hard. 

He starts forward and you jump to diffuse the conversation before anything bad can happen.

Smiling shouldn’t be your response, you have half a mind to drop the basket on his toes. But it’ll hurt you more than him, likely. You incline your head in a passive, positive gesture. 

“You come by and get your shirts when you get a moment,” your voice sounds breezy, managing the same, chipper tone. Micah grits his teeth and steps back but offers no parting word. 

He stalks off towards the horses and half-expects your biting unkindness once his back is turned. He hates cowards worst of all, there’s nothing on earth like spite said directly to his face. He’s almost disappointed.

“Jackass,” Arthur sneers loud enough for Micah to hear it in his voice. A smirk tugs at his mouth under his horseshoe moustache. If he can piss off Morgan, that’s a success. 

“Leave him be, Mister Arthur,” you reply. Micah’s reached Baylock but inclines his head ever so slightly over his shoulder, not wanting to draw attention to his continued interest in what you have to say. 

Any moment now, he’ll hear the reprimand. Micah’s aiming to keep you on a long-term shit list for the offence. 

You’re still stood in the same place, he notes but your line of sight’s been given over to the cowboy-rival. Morgan looks like he wants to take the basket from you, but doesn’t ask. You make no move to hand it off. 

Then, you turn and start to walk towards the wash racks, Arthur follows like a dog. 

“Mister Micah’s got my pity if he really thinks a tumble with him’s some kind of torture.” You say. His blood runs cold and if the way Morgan stiffens and stops is any indication, his has too. 

“You have got to be kiddin’ me.” Arthur sounds shocked but he can get in line. 

Micah starts to unbuckle his horse’s saddle under the pretence of polishing it again, busying his hands and looking away from the scene that’s making him unduly angry.

“He ain’t bad to look at,” the rest of the camp’s gone back to what occupies them, satisfied with the reminder that Micah Bell’s a repulsive prick. But the way you’re talking’s similar to Morgan’s, just loud enough to be heard by those who care to listen. “he dresses well, sometimes.”

“That don’t mean nothin’, trust me.” Morgan sounds like he’s waiting for you to reveal the punchline. Micah wants to growl, everything’s a fucking joke to that lapdog. But you don’t bite. He hears you scoff. 

Arthur’s still arguing. Micah keeps his back firmly turned away from you as your voices grow more distant. 

“Maybe not to you, but I dunno. He’s good enough for me.” You sound so sure, unfazed and standing your ground with Morgan as readily as you did Bell. 

That doesn’t stop Arthur from looking at you like you’ve gone crazy. There are worse things, you suppose. He kicks at the dirt, adjusts his hat on his head like he’s trying to find a retort. Either he can’t or he won’t. 

“Whatever you say,” he replies. It’s a non-confrontational admission that he thinks you’ve absolutely gone fucking crazy. And you don’t have the energy to care. There is no rush to explain what you really meant. “see you around, we’ll talk later.” 

You nod and leave it at that, walking off towards the clothesline like you experienced no interruptions. Micah Bell spits on the ground and tries to put it out of his head. 

\---

Nobody cares where Micah heads to when he rides out, but a collective sigh of relief’s breathed. He makes himself scarce around supper time, complaining to the air that the camp is starting to bore him. 

Miss Grimshaw white-knuckles her dinner plate but says nothing that could turn his foul mood her way. Karen opens her mouth to speak, to say something about how he doesn’t have to stay if that’s how he feels. Mary-Beth gives her a gentle shove. 

But he goes without being told to scram. The tension in the air persists, regardless, but the thought on most everyone’s mind is a prayer that he rides headlong into a tree. The gang’s luck’s been for shit as of late, no one expects the miracle that he won’t come back. 

For a change, even Micah doesn’t really know where he’s going. But town finds him all the same and he decides that a drink won’t do any harm. 

He bums around for a few hours, drinking very little despite the rage in him. It’s of a different sort than the lingering malice. Bell knows as much as anyone that he doesn’t play well with others, but the hate he feels for you is of a wounding sort. It cuts at his insides more than it makes him envision how he’d cut yours. 

It’s better to keep a clear head should anyone want a fight, and he’s hoping for one. Anything’d be better than keeping this rage bottled up. But the saloon’s dead for the most part, no sign of a drunken idiot with words waiting to be misconstrued. No girls, neither. Camp would be more exciting. At least there he could leer at Grimshaw, maybe get her hopes up. Karen’s always good for a laugh. 

And then there’s you, but he decides as whisky burns his throat that he doesn’t want to see you. You’ve neither stony indifference nor hotheaded spark. He tells himself your boring and nearly buys it. You’re boring like camp, like a saloon with no motherfuckers in need of a beating. 

He turns over what you said in his mind. You talked about pity, a tumble with him. Good enough. Micah slams the tumbler down on the bar hard enough to make a dent with the bottom. He’s angry enough to kill, it comes on quick.

What’s that supposed to mean? He thinks. Good enough, fuck you. Fuck you and your presumptuousness. Bell suddenly has half a mind to teach you a lesson for it. 

There isn’t much else for him to do, in fairness. He only has enough cash for two drinks and he all but throws the money at the man behind the bar. The saloon doors rattle behind him as he takes his leave. 

The cold, night air sobers him up a little, but not much. The ride doesn’t last as long as it felt heading into town, but at least he’s not too drunk to ride his horse. Camp comes back in sight and Micah’s voice is slightly slurred when he tells Charles who it is. 

He’s let by with a half-glare that Bell wouldn’t ignore if something else weren’t on his mind. But there is and he does. He ties Baylock to the post with a knot that nearly asks too much of his current abilities. 

Micah manages to walk in a straight line past Hosea and Dutch deep in conversation. The girls are not at the fire, which burns low.

The stars are very bright tonight, like fired bullets. He must’ve stayed in town longer than he thought because there’s a soft glow coming from the inside of your tent. Like everyone else, you’re ready to go to bed.

He can almost make out your shadow, moving quietly in the light as he stalks closer to the entrance. You haven’t tied it down yet, Bell slips in easy enough when when he’s stumbling.

Your back is to him but not for long. He’s not especially stealthy, rustling the canvas as he enters. When you turn to him, agape, he almost feels a thrill of pride. Finally, a reaction he can covet. 

In polite company, you’d be considered naked in just your undergarments. Your hair’s loose around your shoulders and he hates so badly that he’s fond of it. 

Everything about the sight of you makes him sick, from the little springs of lavender embroidered around the collar of your chemise to the locks of hair just begging to be pulled. 

Micah hopes you’ll come to your senses and scream, get Morgan over here so he can let out some of this hate. But you don’t scream. 

You’re so fucking dumb, he thinks when you smile at him. 

“Good evening,” you say, how can your voice sound so even, so unafraid?

There’s a sick need to prove himself coursing through his veins. He wants to tear at you, draw blood and find that weakness. He’ll show you the darkest part of the woods. Micah cuts right to the chase, the drink keeps him from mincing his words. Although there has never been a time when his conversation skills could be described as restrained.

“Am I really good enough for you, Miss? That supposed to be some kind of honour?” His voice isn’t as steady, isn’t quite his own. Where he means to pour loathing he only sounds bitter. 

“No, I’m nothin’ special.” Oh, he could cut deep with that and you know it. He sways slightly in what counts as your doorway but, shockingly, doesn’t fire back. Your voice is purposefully soft. Talk loud enough, he knows, and somebody’ll come to tan his hide whether he tries anything or not. “You’re not a monster, you know.”

His laugh is a creeping cold, a sound like rustling hay. 

“You've been talking to Miss Mary-Beth, then.” He all but snarls. Your face falls, it’s clear that you’ve got no clue what he’s talking about. All you know is that the rage is fading, dying like the fire. 

Everything he hoped for coming to you again is going, too. You didn’t do what he wanted before, now’s not the time to start.

“Micah---” you say and he glares daggers, quick to cut you off despite the obvious inebriation.

“No, don’t you go calling me that,” he spits. “don’t want anyone thinkin’ you--- you---” he flounders for a moment and you can’t tell if it’s out of pain or disgust. 

“I like you, Micah.” You finally say. It’s not an admission, it doesn’t even strike him as a secret. It’s just true. 

“Fuck off, I ain’t out to be liked.” He snaps, but you’ve heard him madder. It sounds to you like he’s out to prove a point, to convince you of something. 

Big guys don’t treat girls bad, you know that. Arthur’s proof of that. But you stand by what you’ve told Micah.

“You’ve made that clear. But I still do.” You say, aware that choosing who to care for’s harder in practice and too easy in theory. 

“Want a medal or somethin’, beast-tamer? You got Morgan eatin’ out of your hand, but that’s not good enough.” He just keeps talking, doesn’t he? 

Micah’s scrambling for another chance to hurt you, but it’s telling that he passed up the first opportunity. He lashes out in all directions, hoping to catch an eye or an artery but he misses. Where he fails, you find the words.

“You’re good enough.” It occurs to you that’s gone back and forth between three sets of ears, but never from your mouth to him. “Not good, never gonna be good---” you speak in a quiet rush. “but you’re good enough.”

Telling him to come’ll backfire. Micah’s fresh-broken glass, eggshells you have to step around. Instead, you open your arms. He staggers forward without another word.

It’s alarming, this. He lunges at you with no fury and you’re still afraid to be on the receiving end of a blade. But there’s no knife, no weapon at all save his hands. They wrap around your waist, tugging you against him like you weren’t the one to invite this. 

You’re not stupid enough to try console him, to tell him to calm down. He squeezes you tight like he’s in the mood to break bone. Any second now you expect to hear a snap as your ribs shatter. The noise you make is pained, as animal as he is. A hare caught in a bear trap. 

“I---” he starts, he looks down at you and his grip loosens. You can breathe again, the pain recedes and no lasting damage is done.

What scares you most is the confusion on his face. You don’t know if he was trying to kill you or hug you. 

Who cares? At this point you’d beg him to shut the fuck up. You say nothing, neither dismissing nor validating his latest attempt at speech. You put your hand to his cheek and you kiss him, that ought to occupy him. 

And it works, thank the Lord. His terrible, snarling mouth is a human shape for a second, just a second. And he’s gentle for not much longer. You feel teeth on your bottom lip eventually, a tongue that tastes of whisky trying to pry its way in. 

You let him, your arms slipping around his neck and making him flinch like he’s to be strangled. At least Micah’s aware that he can hurt you, now. You can feel pain and fear, he saw it on your face. It terrifies him, he doesn’t bite hard enough to taste blood. But he makes it clear he means business. 

What kind of business, though? You suppose the serious kind, the kind that’ll lead to morning regrets and averted gazes. He’s drunk, not too drunk but enough that he could pretend not to remember any of this. 

At least he’s stopped chewing on your lip, trying to grapple for dominance you’re not attempting to take away. Micah’s not half-bad at kissing, you can admit. Void of empathy, for sure, but he’s done this before. 

You doubt he needs this as you grip the back of his neck and give his hair a gentle tug. But he wants it, you want it too. 

He breaks the kiss to your surprise, smiling like Christmas came early. One of his hands around your waist finds its way to your hair, tugging much harder. You’ve opened the floodgates and it feels good. 

Your moan encourages him, he wraps his fist around your lock of hair and pulls enough to tilt your head back. He keeps you steady with one arm at your back, dipping his head and kissing just above your jugular notch. 

He can feel your fluttering heartbeat against his lips, against his front teeth as he scrapes them along your skin. Micah doesn’t mark you, he leaves you guessing as to why. 

But, perhaps in some corner of his twisted heart, he wants to give you the option to forget this as easily as he could. 

Micah doesn’t know what he wants from you, he realizes that as he’s involuntarily committing the way your skin feels to his long-term memory. You’re going to be troubled past for him soon, but he knows himself well enough to understand that you will make yourself necessary in the worst way. 

He will never be necessary in any capacity and this is the first time he considers he might not be better for it. 

Your fingers are in his hair again, petting him like he’s a dog. But then your grip steels, you tug and he lets out a breath into the notch between your collarbone that poets are so fond of. 

He’s shaky, holding you still but unable to maintain it. It’s best the two of you lie down before something ends up smashed to pieces. He’s rough with you then, a reminder that he is not kind as he walks you away from the tent entrance. 

You sit down on your cot without needing to be told, Micah’s leather coat hits the ground with a heavy thud. No need to complicate things further, he expects this to be a quick affair. 

“They’re gonna think---” he huffs, sounding half amused and half depraved as he gets on his knees in front of you. You move towards him, rather than away. Micah stalks forward the rest of the way on his hands and knees. 

One hand snakes around your ankle, pulling it to the side and coaxing your legs to part. 

“Who cares?” You finally voice what you’ve been thinking most of the evening. He likes the sound of that. You reach out to him again, hand to his shoulder and squeezing so gently. “I want you, so I don’t care what they’re gonna think.” 

He stares at you for a long time, his voice carries some of that amused malice but you imagine that’s because he doesn’t know how to sound happy. That requires practice. 

“Neither do I, missy.” He says. “Neither do I.” 

You spread your legs, tugging your chemise up to your hips and showing him part of what he wants to see. The other part’s conjured up in his mind but it’ll have to wait. Micah feels a stirring in his trousers, he reaches between his own legs and begins to palm at his crotch. You have to marvel at him, at the lack of shame and the fact that he must think that’s enticing. 

But rather than voicing your displeasure, you make a move to change it. You pull him closer to you by the shoulder, Micah shuffles forward on his knees. 

“That’s my job,” you whisper, he’s close enough now that you can put your hand over his.

You touch him, keeping your gaze fixed on his ice-blue eyes. They’re small, you notice, and watery. That jabbing pity strikes at your heart hard and fast. He’s the first to break. Limp, blond hair falls into his face as his head drops. He looks at your hand, so different to his taking what you want. 

His neck snaps up, eyes to yours again. 

“You really want me, huh?” He’s so much louder than you, still not enough to be overheard but you get the feeling he might like to be. His grin is shit-eating but you smile back. 

“Do I gotta spell it out for you, Micah?” You ask. He shakes his head. 

“No more than you already have. You always the type to beg for it?” He’s teasing you, trying to get a rise without aiming for anywhere lethal. You can allow that. 

You let your head fall back, bracing an arm behind you to keep you sitting up. 

“It must be like I said,” you ready to repeat yourself. “I like you.” 

“Guess I could learn to like you,” he replies, shifting yet closer and putting his hand to your inner thigh. His thick, rough thumb circles at your folds while his expression shifts to morbidly curious. “or parts of you.” 

“Ain’t I the lucky one?” You tease him right back with the full knowledge that he still might snap and kill you for it. 

“You’ll see, when I get you screamin’ for more.” He says like it’s a promise. You give a soft gasp as the pad of his thumb brushes your clit. There’s no waiting with Micah, clearly, he rubs at the bundle of nerves once its found with a fervour. “Don’t you look pretty? Already wet, how nice.” 

He goes all in quick as anything, two of his fingers fit in you. You don’t stand a chance, and his hand not currently making you moan covers your mouth to keep any noises in.

Your elbow behind you bends, you begin to lower yourself back. That hand over your mouth turns to hand at the back of your neck too fast for someone who’s still tipsy. Micah pulls you up by your hair. 

“Don’t you go lyin’ back. That’s not how I’m gonna have you.” Your eyes close briefly, his voice is being eaten at by his desire. He pulls your hair again, not as hard this time but enough to elicit a soft noise of approval. “There, that’s better. I’m not in the mood for prying eyes.” 

“Good that I know what you want.” You say with a look of mocking amusement in your eye. He lets it slide again and again, maybe he just thinks you’re funny. 

“And good that I’m gonna give you what you need. Roll over, there’s a real good girl.” He takes his hand away and the whine that escapes you is wholly foreign to your ears. Wholly exciting to his if the way he smirks is any indication. 

You do as your told, pocketing the information that ‘good girl’ could be used as a very effective weapon against you. It makes heat blossom across your cheeks, you’re happy for the opportunity to turn away from Micah’s appraising smile. You’d never hear the end if he caught you blushing. 

Buttons are undone behind you, his fingers move against the fabric of his trousers and long-johns. The cock you manhandled is free soon enough and you glance over your shoulder out of curiosity. Micah’s rubbing himself, taking his time. 

“Just makin’ sure I’m good and ready for you,” he explains and you sharply inhale your next breath. 

Bell sets his hand on your lower back, pushing up the linen so he can see whatever pleases him. God, he hopes he wants to remember this tomorrow. He hopes you do, too. You have a nice ass, what he wouldn’t give to fully explore all there is of it. 

His fingers sink into your flesh, but he stands by his personal rule. No marks. But he swats at your rear, dealing one, stinging slap to your left cheek. You force yourself to keep quiet about it but your mind is screaming at him to do that again. 

Micah doesn’t. Too noisy, too risky. You hope he doesn’t brush you off come morning, you hope this isn’t the only time he’ll want this from you. Your imagination runs truly wild as he lines himself up behind you and pushes himself in to the hilt in one motion. 

Oddly enough, something Karen once said is shoved to the front of your mind. “A mongrel like Bell’s gotta be sore about somethin’, probably ‘cause his prick’s too small to feel.” 

With all due respect to Karen Jones, you feel him. 

You nearly shout again, lifting your own hand to clamp over your mouth this time. Micah sets a punishing pace, his hands on your hips are too gentle by comparison. The only noise is the sound of his hips meeting your rear, pushing you forward with every thrust. 

“Fuck,” Bell growls low in his throat, breaking that silence. He moves in you not like he wants to get it over with, but like he just can’t help himself. “do you ever feel good.” 

You could say the same to him, except you can’t. You’re too nervous to take your hand off your mouth again. But eventually the overwhelming sensation settles down, you pick up the rhythm and your movements start to match his. 

When you’re no longer terrified of alerting everyone in camp of your activities, you let your hand fall between your legs. 

“You feel all right, missy?” Micah asks, sounding like a tease more than a worrywart. You’re glad of that at least, it lets you answer with, 

“My arm is fucking shakin’, you’re doin’ your job just fine.” A muffled bark of laughter cuts the air, you’ve never heard him make a noise so sincere. 

“That’s what I like to hear,” he gets caught up in the moment too easily and brings his hand down on your ass again. It’s a clearly-defined slapping noise but he doesn’t stop to make sure no one heard. He’s praying, if someone like Micah prays, that his ball’s’ll be empty before anyone comes to check. 

You’re seized by a less rational but agreeable thought: stop worrying and get off. You don’t trust him to finish the job should his climax come first. You focus instead on how he feels, and it’s better than expected. Either your standards need to be hiked up or Micah truly is above average. Both sound amusingly appalling. 

An orgasm sneaks up on you amidst your ceaseless wondering about what this man is thinking. But when your fixations turn to sensations, emotions, the way his hot hands barely hold you in place it’s not that surprising. But it feels electric, brand new and exhilarating. Your exhaustion’s long gone, but your limbs almost buzz. 

Or shake. You lower your chest to the cot before your shaky arm can give out completely. Micah’s earlier misgivings about lying down seem to evaporate with the way you tighten around his cock. He fucks you through it, groaning through gritted teeth. 

He doesn’t ask you where he should come, but that’s not a surprise either. All that you care deeply about, he does and just before Micah’s done, he leaves you. 

His come paints your back but you can’t find it in you to be upset about it. You’re too busy gripping the fur beneath you and mourning the ache that will surely be present between your legs tomorrow. 

You fall down onto your side, looking up at Micah. Your expression is drawn, the unexpected high now caving to a languid low. He tucks himself back into his pants, too shaken to stand up right away. He looks at the empty spot on the cot next to you. It’s your decision, you suppose. Words are needed now. 

“Stay,” you barely hear yourself but what matters is that Micah does. He swallows and slumps down beside you. No more is said.


	2. Terror

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> honestly, i can't tell if this is any good.

He only fucks you when he’s drunk, this is bound to happen eventually. 

Micah’s sworn off sex at camp, it’s too risky for someone like him. And your noises are, in his opinion, best enjoyed in the empty spaces between civilization. His private abode outside Strawberry is easily reconstructed and dismantled, far enough away to trouble people. 

And he loves troubling people. 

But it means that if he gets heated, if he gets mad you’re at it alone. That should scare you, you guess. It should put you on edge for situations like this, but it doesn’t. You’re not. 

He tugs at his cock with a fervour, snarling more from the embarrassment than the fury. Micah’s an angry man, but it never comes across as fiercely as he might like it to. Not when he’s around you, anyway. Instead, you’re treated to a snapshot of how deeply alone he is, how jaded and dreadful. 

“Micah,” you say from the bedroll. The night air is warm against your bare skin. Firelight casts flickering shadows across your hips and legs.

The man is too preoccupied with his inability to maintain an erection. Although, in his defence you did watch him drink a bottle and a half of whisky. You’re surprised he’s conscious, not that he can’t get it up. 

“These things happen,” you try again, prodding around the issue. He’s already emasculated himself with his reaction. If he were sober--- no, you doubt he’d know it, then. This is a perfectly normal reaction for someone like him, someone who needs to have a stranglehold on control. 

You’re not afraid, not even when he turns to glare at you and his eyes spark like the fire. They’re wetter than usual, frustrated and impatient. 

“This’s never--- never happened before.” If you didn’t know better, you’d say Micah was almost trying to reassure you.

Of all the things for him to be conscious of, his skill as a lover doesn’t seem like it would be a priority for him. He’s surprised you, for a change. You’re shocked that he would care enough to explain. 

“I know,” you reply, sounding calm and a little slurred yourself. 

You pat the space next to you on the bedroll, that usually works. For all Micah’s hate of dogs and Morgan, he comes when he’s called. 

He’s irked nearly beyond words, his limp prick hanging against his thigh like a slug. There’s no move to tuck it away, Micah already feels like a prize idiot without fumbling to buckle his own belt in front of you. 

The return is the worst part. He shuffled away during the initial problem, waving his hand and saying that it was a minor setback. He’d handle it. He handled it over and over, didn’t make a difference. 

Micah doesn’t want pity, doesn’t want to be doted on like he’s a broken man. He’s not broken, just drunk and sick to death of everything and everyone. 

But he lies down, anyway. You don’t reach out, you don’t touch him. You just look at him, watching his face like you’re trying to find something to say. 

He cuts off your train of thought by bringing his palm down on your hip. Micah catches himself wanting to make noise for the sake of it, just because no one will hear. The sound of the slap reverberates off the rocks behind you, so does the small noise that leaves your throat. 

“Sorry to disappoint, doll.” Micah wants to look mad, bloodthirsty and indifferent. He only looks upset with himself. 

You touch him, then, tucking his cock back in his trousers and zipping the whole affair shut with no complaints. You’re better with your hands than he is, Micah can admit that. You always know where best to place them. 

It’s sentimental, he refuses to think it out loud, but he’s never known somebody to find pleasure in the way his shoulders curve. Or in the crook of his neck. He’s not a liar when he says you make him feel good. 

“Micah, it’s fine. I swear, everythin’s the end of the world with you men.” It’s the most that’s been said for the past twenty minutes.

He makes himself comfortable, his hand loosely gripping your hip. You put your fingers to work unbuttoning his red shirt, still half-undone from when the fun started and abruptly ended. 

It’s a quiet act that lets him articulate a response. 

“How’s it that everythin’s always fine with you? Always good enough or okay?” The overtones of mocking dissatisfaction are paralyzing, but he doesn’t really know if he intends it to be that way. It’s hard to know anything else, but he hopes you have an answer for him.

“‘Cause it is,” you reply. Your brow furrows as you pass buttons through button holes, working your way down his chest. “people are so specific with what they want. No wonder they’re unhappy.”

Micah chortles, it’s an unkind sound that you’re so used to. Being unkind comes as natural to him as breathing, and his nature is impossible to forget. He likes to rub your nose in it to see how long you’ll stay. But it’s been weeks, now.

He still awaits your boredom.

“Ain’t you unhappy like the rest of us?” He phrases this even less like a question, more like a stinging retort. Your hands still and for a second he wonders if one of his barbs finally met their mark. 

Shit, he thinks. He doesn’t know why but it’s the only word in his head. But then you look up, grinning at him like an especially stupid fox.

“Sure. But I got you sometimes, so not always.” It’s got to be the drink making you sappy, you don’t last a second. 

The fire crackles somewhere to your right. You and him burst into twin, drunken laughs. That’s not sweet, you realize, it’s disgusting. And only half a lie. Micah ignores that part, ignores all sincerity and beelines for what will let him hear your laugh again.

“You read that in Morgan’s poetry journal or one of Dutch’s romance novels?” He lifts a brow. He’s never noticed before how more often than not, his jokes get more of an impact than his insults.

If only they weren’t one and the same, most days.

“Probably a romance novel.” You admit through a smile again. The crisis has not been fully averted, you can see the continued presence of lust in his eyes. 

Your fingers brush over his chest, over imperfections. There is no indication at all on your face that you see it them that way. You harbour no delusions about him, but you’ve made a choice to lie with him time and time again. In your opinion, it is the right one. 

Micah catches your hand, tugging you forward as he rolls onto his back. You end up half-across his now-exposed chest, his heart thumps and you can feel it against your bicep. 

“You got nothin’ better to do than haul me around?” You mean for that to be rhetorical, but the last word always belongs to him. 

“I’ll haul you wherever I damn please. And you’ll like it.” His hand’s still pinning your wrist, but he has another arm that snakes around your waist. His fingers dig into your left asscheek, scratching at your soft skin. 

Marks are tentatively on the table, now. But unsurprisingly, he doesn’t take kindly to the ones you leave in plain sight. Wouldn’t want to give anyone the wrong idea, he told you. You reminded him that he’s never once in his life given anyone the right idea. 

The bruising on your hips took days to fade. 

You hiss as he drags his nails up your back, poking at a mark on your shoulder from the last tumble two days ago. Motherfucker bent over and sunk his teeth into you. You shiver involuntarily. 

“Gonna miss that one when it fades,” he comments rather unnecessarily. 

“Yeah, me too.” You reply without really thinking. The gravity of validating his most carnal impulses is momentarily lost on you. It’s only when you catch him staring that you speak again. “What are you doin’, Micha? Actin’ like you never had a girl who likes it rough.” 

“I’d say that’s all I’ve had, doll.” He’s wearing a smirk that you find frustrating. “Just appreciatin’ the enthusiasm.” 

“You ain’t so bad a lay, either,” you return.

Your compliments come with less of a price than he’d like. Micah doesn’t enjoy paying for kindness, mostly because he would rather not have it. But he accepts it from you, in all the forms it arrives. 

“Can’t eat pussy for shit, though,” you add. He bares his teeth to you and you have to admit that it’s quite threatening. You stiffen in his arms, trying not to look so alarmed that it ruins the moment. 

“Fuckin’ liar,” he says with an uncomfortable growl. His grip on you tightens, pressing against wounds that he’s made. In the back of your throat, you whimper. But you don’t back down. 

“That so? Prove it. God knows you could use the practice.” Micah sits up a little, taking you with him. 

“If you want it, you could just ask for it.” His voice is hard and cold, clearer somehow than when he’s sober. You’ve pushed him far enough tonight, time to ease up. “No need to be fuckin’ rude.”

This is a dance, you figure. Or a fistfight. 

“I’m sorry, didn’t mean to make you mad.” You tell him. Micah doesn’t buy that but it calms the rage. 

“Ask nicely and you shall receive.” He drawls. You huff, wishing he didn’t feel the need to hold every victory over your head. You’ll never hear the end of it if you give in, but he absolutely needs the practice. 

And the ache between your thighs has yet to subside, despite the malfunction in his equipment. You’ve done much more for much less.

“Will you eat my pussy, Micah Bell?” You say it to his face, figuring it’s most convincing that way. He’ll make you beg if he has the mind to and you’re not in the mood.

Maybe it’s the softness of your tone, or the way you sound interested in his offer even after insulting his technique. Maybe Micah is just feeling generous. His head is swimming, he’s drunk off his ass. That’s excuse enough to do a good deed, he can justify it to himself when he’s back in the right state of mind. 

“It’d be my pleasure.” He releases your wrist, pushing your shoulders back again and choosing the position. Bossy as usual, you’ve found yourself conserving every ounce of patience for moments like this. Nobody else can tell you what to do without getting a faceful of claw. 

On your back again, he settles between your thighs. You shift until you’re comfortable and until he’s nowhere near the fire. You catch yourself smiling at the thought of him going up in flames from all the liquor. 

His technique, a term you use loosely, is more of an attack. He understands the parts that make you sing, if only he cared to know how to play them. But his willingness, albeit under slight duress is something new.

You’re reminded of how sloppy Micah can be. But not wholly unpleasant, your head falls back against the bed roll with a moan of his name. Above all else, he likes the way his name sounds when said by another. It goes directly to his head. 

Micah sets about coaxing it from you as many times as he can. It’s strange, he realizes as he licks at you with broad strokes of his tongue, that he should care what you think of his abilities. He knows as well as you that his pleasure is the most important, but he resents your opinion that he’s incapable. 

He finds determination in spite better than anyone else he knows. 

Paying exclusive attention to only what a lover’s body can give is a tough habit to break. He tries to listen for your sighs, to note when your hips involuntarily jerk. 

He won’t care come morning, most likely. He doesn’t like anyone that much and never has. But for a small span of time, Micah can’t say he’s wholly uninvested in giving you pleasure. 

Of course, his two goals shift to one after a time. Technique can’t be taught in one night to a man who will forget as soon as he’s able. He takes on instead the task of making you come, and he takes it very seriously. 

His tongue falls on your clit with enough irregularity to keep it interesting. Every noise that crosses your throat you let out, if only for the sake of encouraging him. Micah’s duality exhausts you, it’s hard to know what to do with a man who craves approval that he’ll never ask for. 

Micah has the decency to use his fingers after a while, and to have persistence. He’s not nearly as hopeless as you tease, you admit that with a steady increase in the volume of your cries. 

“Atta girl,” Bell speaks to your inner thighs, aware now that certain combinations of words make your insides go gelatinous. “if there’s anyone out here, let ‘em know how good I make you feel.” 

Keeping your hands at your sides is no longer an option, they surge forward and grab the back of his head. Micah’s tongue returns to work, swiping over the nerves that make you shake. His fingers pump in and out of you, he knows well enough to curl them, to catch the spot that has you seeing stars in the figurative sense. 

Literally, though, they’re right above you. Your eyes squeeze shut, getting a little lost in the way he makes you spasm. 

You arch your hips, pulling hard at his hair. He proves you right and wrong at the same time. Not much in the way of skill, but he can take care of you in at least one way. As orgasms go, it’s adequately intense. You can commend his efforts.

Swearing under your breath, your hips drop back to the bedroll and your fingers their grip on his hair. You chest heaves, but you don’t let him go. Micah’s cheek drops to your inner thigh. 

You don’t remember falling asleep. If you had the choice, you’d have moved away from what would become the direct path of the sun. 

Bright light behind your eyelids wakes you eventually, along with the throbbing in your head. Your mouth is dry and everywhere from the neck-up hurts. 

But it’s warm out here, at least. You blink the remnants of sleep from your eyes, blurred vision clearing. You’re in pain, ready to sit up and begin the recovery process but something stops you. 

Or someone. Micah’s still out, if his breathing’s any indication. He has his head on your bare stomach. 

Maybe he’d stand right up if you fell asleep on him. Maybe he’d push you awake and bark an order to get him a cup of coffee. You let out a long sigh as you lie back down. Your hands are free, at least. You throw your arm over your face to try to block out the sun. 

Bringing yourself to be as bad as him on a technical level isn’t a satisfying option. You let the bastard lie.


	3. Devil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i didn't actually mean to write the how of how the reader got that mark on her shoulder from the last chapter but!!! oh well. also please be warned that there's a little knife/blood-play in this chapter.

He saunters up just as you turn over Death. The card looks ominous in the waxy rays of moonlight mixed with the kerosene lamp. You’re sat before a wide stump, nature’s table with a stack of long cards cut into two piles at your right. 

Three cards are sat in front of you, one besides Death already overturned and one yet to be. Micah makes a short noise of surprise. The skeletal figure’s feet are in the air, it’s upside down. But there’s no mistaking the curve at the mouth of its skull, it smiles at you and Bell with an uncanny clarity. 

“The hell is that?” Micah asks. He knows all the card games, the fuck are you playing out here in the dark? You noticed him when he walked over but said nothing, trying to interpret the presence of a reserved Death card. 

“You know what tarot cards are? M’doin’ a readin’.” You reply, still half concentrated on the unspoken words of the cards. You touch Death, put your fingers on it willingly, touching the open hole at its stomach and the he bandages wrapped around its fleshless head. 

“Tarot?” He parrots, but not the best he can. Micah sounds exaggerated, on the edge of a laugh in the face of something he doesn’t understand. “Ain’t that fortune-teller horse shit? Con artist stuff?” 

So he does know what it is. And he fears it. Micah’s got no desire to think of his future, not yet, anyway. The past is a miserable graveyard and the days to come are a hole that he’ll fall into eventually. All he has is now, and he is terrified. 

He wishes that Death would stop staring at him, too. Its eyes are cold somehow, even if all that time’s allowed it to keep are its sockets. Micah hopes you’ll turn it over soon like the one on your left, but all you do is unveil the last one. 

“Cons use it, sure, if they’re smart enough. I—” you stop. You’re looking at the freshly revealed card that seems to take all of the confusion away. Micah’s made a little sick by the way a piece of paper can bring you comfort. But also a little jealous. 

A winged, blindfolded cherub stands on a pillar, holding aloft a set of arrows. Below him, a man and a woman with rosy cheeks and yellow hair clasp hands. There is no name on the card, Micah can’t understand what the picture says but you seem to take great comfort from it. You’re much more familiar with this card. 

“What’s that mean?” He asks, pointing towards the card with a grubby finger. 

“They’re the lovers, Micah.” You reply. He could roll his eyes. Jeez, here you go. “They mean new hope, new stages in life. I was hopin’ they’d turn up. Always there when I need ‘em.” 

“Sounds like bullshit to me.” He replies. You roll your shoulders. 

“What are you doin’ out here? S’cold.” And it is. The lake makes the fog run thick around here, chilling by night the way the sun bakes the dirt in the day. Micah is without his coat and you feel a shiver run up your spine despite your shawl. But he doesn’t seem bothered.

“I am here to relieve you, Miss,” he says, looking pointedly towards the shotgun sitting against the stump. “but I see you’re already slackin’ off.” 

“Nah, I ain’t. Charles came by a half-hour ago, said he had a lot to think about and that the night watch helps clear his head.” You explain. Micah’s face falters, he was so hoping to have something to give you grief over. 

Something to punish you for. You shiver again but he doesn’t notice. 

“Oh,” is all he says. You sweep up the three cards in front of you and shuffle them with a deft hand. 

“Could do a readin’ for you, if you wanted,” you say, rearranging the long, frayed deck into a new order. You’ve clearly loved every card in the bundle as evidence by their age. 

Micah feels a profound unease at the sight of you, the candlelight flickering over your face. He draws his hand over his horseshoe moustache as if in deep, contemplative thought. But when he speaks, his voice is all ice.

“You really believe in this, don’t’cha?” He asks. Your shoulders tense out of habit but you’ve let him get away with saying worse. 

“I pull ‘em out when I got questions, that’s it.” You say. “Or when I wanna talk to someone who might know a little better than I.” Micah scoffs.

“What if these magic cards say kill me in my sleep, you’d do it?” It’s a joke, a bad one but you surprise him by laughing at it. You’ve gotten a little too good at identifying what he does and doesn’t mean. It’s another reason for him to worry. 

“They’re not that specific,” you reply with a shake of your head. “come on, they don’t bite. In Italy they ain’t even for fortune-tellin’.”

“Oh, ‘cause what they do in Italy’s real assurin’,” Micah continues. You motion for him to sit on the grass on the opposite side of the log with a wave of your hand. 

“S’just a game, Micah. You like those.” You say with a joviality in his tone that grips somewhere in him. It makes him question all his jokes, makes him sit down heavily on the dewy grass. You smile at him from across the stump, eerie in the half-light. “Thank you.” 

“Yeah, sure. Deal me in or whatever it is you do.” He’s only half-kidding at this point, he’s lost. But you laugh again so he knows he’s made an ass of himself.

You push the worn, painted cards across the stump to him and he has no idea what to do.

“Cut them, can you do that?” You ask, the tint of a giggle colouring your voice again. He swipes them up with a menacing glare. 

“Yes, I can do that, missy.” He replies. There’s no care or reverence in how he does it, but Micah does it at least. He sets the two piles down, one off to the side and the other in front. 

You reach out and push the remaining half-deck out across the stump, picture-side down. He stares at the floaty patterns of vines and chalices on the back, unsure as to what, if anything, they mean. 

“Pick three and set them out in a line.” You say. 

“Why three?” He asks, but it’s more of a curious snap. But at least, you think, the curiosity is in there somewhere. 

“S’the most basic readin’. I do one every so often just to refresh. Each of the cards can represent somethin’ but the standard’s past, present and future.” You take the time to explain it in a relative depth that he thought he would have no interest in. But he looks long and hard at the backs of the cards. 

The three he picks are battered especially, and he sets them out halfway between you and him. Maybe a little closer to you. He watches you, unimpressed as you turn over the card of his past. 

There’s four people on this one and none of them are as easily recognizable as the ones he’s seen before. An old man crawls with a wheel on his back, a girl with donkey ears climbs up the side. One sits at the top, staring out at him uncannily. Another little girl crawls down the right side, she has a tail. In the centre another blindfolded, winged creature. A woman in a brocade dress.

“Does this mean I’m an ass or somethin’?” Micah asks, pointing plainly towards the ears and the tail. He touches the card as if to prove he’s not afraid of them. You shake your head. 

“It’s the Wheel of Fortune, Micah,” you say with a fond look that he’s not expecting. 

“What’s it mean?” He hates that even the slightest interest is evident in his voice but you don’t find it indicative of anything. 

“Well, generally speakin’ it means the end of a problem. Destiny, things like that. But it’s tough to say whether the end to that problem’s any good without turnin’ over the next card.” You say, Micah motions for you to get on with it, then. 

You turn the second card and pray he doesn’t notice the way your face falls. There are no people present in this picture, merely two swords crossed dangerously with one stuck between them. Micah can’t help but feel threatened by proxy. 

“Three of swords,” you comment. “upright.” You try not to let the disappointment show, but your insides have curdled like old milk. It’s a nasty feeling, when the truth hurts.

Micah thinks you have to be out of your goddamn mind. He’s never considered you to be the sensible sort, but at least your brazen displays of stupidity are entertaining. This is inching towards sad really quick. What keeps him sitting is that you have to decency to be ashamed of yourself. 

Fine, he’ll bite. 

“What’s it mean, doll? I’m in the dark, here.” He says and you give a little shrug.

“Well, it’s not good. In a broad sense it can mean disappointment, heartache. Could be talking about the Blackwater job, the folk we lost.” You say. Micah all but snarls, your eyes snap back up to his. He looks annoyed, worse than annoyed. 

“Everything’s always about the fuckin’ Blackwater job. It’s been weeks, when will you people bury it?” Clearly you’ve tread on a sore spot, you lean away from him just a touch. 

“It happened, Micah,” you say, sounding quiet. “because sometimes things go wrong. It’s not like you—” you cut yourself off, staring at him with a hopefulness that nearly makes him squirm.  
“Like I what?” He asks, his voice is terrifying, like a warning. You pick your words carefully. 

“It’s not like you wanted it to go that way. Plans go south.” Right answer, you can tell. Micah’s placated. He leans forward and props his elbows on the stump, picking up the three of swords. 

“That’s what I’ve been tryin’ to tell you people,” he says, examining the picture and all its details. You wonder if heartbreak, if loss registers in any other ways. “plans go south, now so do we.” 

You say nothing as he fiddles with the card, watching your face for signs of annoyance he won’t find. After a moment of silence, he sets it back down. 

“What’s the last one, huh?” He asks. “Tell me my future, Miss.” 

The odd, tense nature of the three of swords still informs your actions. He doesn’t want to take this seriously, you could tell from the second he sat down. Let him think it’s a crock, doesn’t hurt you either way. You flip over the last card. 

Micah laughs, he laughs loud and humourlessly. You can’t help the defeated sigh you let out in the ugly face of the Devil, upright. 

“Now, I ain’t an expert,” he starts, a quiver of laughter still in his voice. “but I’m gonna guess that’s not good.” To his surprise, you shake your head.

“I mean, it’s not, but the Devil isn’t so bad,” Micah’s already had a pretty bad reading, though you keep that to yourself. “just means there’s gonna be temptation in your future.” 

“It’s already in my present, don’t you worry.” He replies, that rough charm sneaking it yet another joke and a very intense look at you. It lands, you smile for him. 

“Yeah, ‘cause you can resist so much.” You reply. The cards sit out on the stump for a little longer, Micah stares into the black eyes and at the large wings folded against the Devil’s back. You get the feeling you don’t see what he does. But this card as his future makes very little sense to you, you realize as you watch him take in the demonic figure and the satyrs in chains. The Devil’s already cheated him. An idiot could see that.

He doesn’t believe in this, he knows it even as he takes in the sight of two innocents tied to wickedness. But Micah knows best of all that Devil might be his name to some, even if they’d never speak it aloud. It gives him a sense of pride. He doesn’t know which one’s meant to be him, in chains or free and standing in the fire. Temptation. You’re right, he can resist everything but. 

“You really buy this shit, missy?” He pipes up after the long silence. The dark night folds around you, the shadows could make you a mystery but even now you’re open to him. You lean in like you’re about to tell him a secret, he can’t wait. 

“Micah, do you really wanna know what I think?” He doesn’t confirm it, he can’t confirm it but you don’t see him moving to cut you off or silence you. You take a deep breath and you lie, “It’s all bullshit.” But it’s a reassuring lie. You watch a smile creep into his watery, blue eyes. 

So he does have a heart, one that can feel fear. You tuck that away. 

“I use it to scam a dollar or so outta folks who don’t know better. S’just random selection, no real meanin’ to it.” You go on, he likes what you say more and more with every word. And you can tell he finds the whole thing safely hilarious. 

Behind his eyes, he sees idiots lined up to trade gold for useless information. It’s just generic enough to apply to everybody. It’s a pretty good con, he can admit that. Colour him impressed. 

“Well, that would be a relief, except that I might’ve been lookin’ forward to givin’ into that temptation.” Might’ve, he tells you. As if he already hasn’t just by sitting down. You’re quite the temptation to him.

“Like you need a card for that.” You reply with a gentleness that catches him off-guard despite you’re insistence that he’s an idiot. 

“You’re right. I don’t.” He agrees.

“It’s cold out,” you like to remind him every so often that the rest of camp is absolutely wrong. You are not trolling through mud when you choose to be with him. 

“I barely noticed.” He replies for a reason you do not fully understand. It occurs to you that you haven’t given him the gist of his reading, but it’s too late for that now. 

You doubt his childhood was a pleasant one, wouldn’t take a fool to figure it out with the way he talks about his father had him up to. But whatever fortune he had then, it’s all gone now. He’s lost more than he’s willing to let himself think about and the future looks warm in the worst ways. 

“You ain’t wearin’ a jacket, Micah. You gotta be cold, come on.” You say, sweeping up your cards with a delicate hand and pushing them into the silk pouch they rest in. They’re placed carefully in your pocket. If Bell notices how you handle them is in sharp contrast to your supposedly real opinion, he says nothing. 

“Where you wanna go?” It’s still a source of mild surprise that you’re the one to offer these kinds of invitations. He’s prone to asking with a sly grin that falters in the fact of enthusiastic agreement.

“Inside. You wanna get warmed up or not?” You know the answer as soon as you rise. He doesn’t scramble after, but he does follow. 

The inside of your tent is as he remembers, neat and barely-lit. He’s seen more of your ass than your face in here, he realizes with a sharply-curved grin. You discard your shawl, dropping it onto the bed. 

Maybe you intend to turn, to face him but he isn’t especially feeling like that. Micah crosses the roof, his vicelike grip wraps around your shoulders and tugs you back against his chest. You swallow a noise of surprise, and then a faint sigh. 

He’s never known someone to make so much noise. Micah has half a mind to give it to you good while the rest of the gang croons their cowboy songs, let everyone know that he can play an instrument as well as anyone. 

But there’s no light, now. Fucking in the dead of night appears the only way you’ll have each other. He grips you tight, feels the boning of your corset and gets a twisted idea. 

“Now, you hold still, doll,” he says into your ear, his breath’s the only thing that’s warm. He’s a liar for saying the cold didn’t touch him, his entire front is frigid even against your clothes. 

His hand paws for something at his belt and retrieves— not what you would expect. Micah pulls his hunting knife from its sheath. You freeze, tensing up against him. He can feel your heart against his forearm, suddenly fast and incredibly loud. 

But you don’t squirm, you stay stock still, exactly as he said. Micah’s chin rests in the crook of your shoulder, watching intently as he brings the blade of the knife underneath the top button on your blouse. 

He waits for the noises of protest, the shouting as you berate him for the damage. But you listen, the tension in your shoulders even fades as you realize he doesn’t intent to drive the knife-point between your ribs. 

They’re just buttons, you tell yourself as he cuts them off in quick, skilled motions. And this is making him very happy. You reach behind you, grabbing for his hip as he runs a knife up down your chest with jerky, upward flicks. Your blouse falls as open as it can, still tucked in your belt. 

Micah’s not done with his knife, but his arm across your breastbone shifts. He pushes his cold hands beneath the now-open fabric to touch your skin. Goosebumps rise like daisies after a snowfall.

He grabs at you near-leisurely, the first of that sort of behaviour you’ve seen from him. But there’s no complaints, no urges to hurry it along. You explore him too, running your hands over the curve of his side. 

The knife’s held away from you when he decides he’s had enough. He takes your now-open blouse and tugs hard, pulling it from the band of your skirt. Your hands leave him, unbuttoning the clasps at the wrists so that it’s easily discarded. 

“You wear entirely too much,” he tells you with a rumble of amusement at the edge. You exhale hard, he throws your blouse to the wooden palettes that make up the floor and forcefully steers you towards the side table. 

It’s clear what he wants; you bent over. He stops pressing against your back when the front of your thighs digs into the unfinished wood. You scramble to undo the belt at your waist, the buttons keeping your overskirt and petticoat in place. Micah’s hand at your hip helps to urge the fabric down. But he’s not that patient. 

The knife is pressed flat-edge to your back, still clenched in his hand as he tries to push you forward. The boning in your corset creaks in protest. 

“Micah,” you start and the pressure of his fist against your skin ceases near-immediately. “just gimme a minute. Help me get out of this awful thing—”

“Let me cut it,” he says, much to your surprise. You look at him with a lifted eyebrow and he presses his hips to your rear rather pointedly. “I want you. Let me cut it.” 

“Oh, my God,” you reply, your smile trembles. You can’t, in good faith, agree out loud but you give a single nod of your head. You look back to the wall of the tent as his hand and the knife leaves your back, repositioned by your hips. 

He hesitates, expecting now a flinch or the fear to rear its head. You go still, like an animal made for eating being watched by something bigger and hungrier. The tip of his knife hooks under the ribbon tied into a little bow, Micah drags it up, up, up. 

“Like skinnin’ a hare,” he chuckles, tugging at the ripped ribbon and whale bone wrapped in patterned cotton. You lean back from the table enough for him to pull it away, bemoaning the loss and realizing you’ll have to dream up an excuse to Miss Grimshaw. 

But any worries are abated by his hands that go seeking again. He’s done with button-cutting and ribbon-splitting. He sets the knife down on the table, puts one hand to your hip and the other square in the centre of your back. He pushes you forward and you bend. 

Micah tugs at your chemise, pulling it from under your unbuttoned overskirt and petticoat so he can get at your bare skin. 

“What say you, darlin’?” He asks, his voice is hoarse with excitement, giddy with a tragic desire to make you bleed. “My initials? How about right here?” He presses the end of the knife to your shoulder-blade, a good distance from your spine. 

Your breath hitches, you lift your head and look at him. Micah’s grip falters on the knife, the way you stare at him is what he expected from the start. You open your mouth and all that leaves you is a squeak, a pathetic sound that has him taking the knife away. He’s made a small cut, he notices, and a drop of blood beads at the wound. The way his insides squirm with hate and disgust has him clenching his fist around his weapon so hard that the wood might splinter. 

But it dies, it always does. He loosens his grip.

“Some other time, then,” he says. He stows the knife in its sheath, leaning forward with his hips flush to your rear. Micah’s hesitant, but you feel his tongue lapping at the little nick. It’s a moment before you’re sure of what he’s doing, until it dawns on you that he’s trying to kiss it better. 

“Yeah,” you sigh. You’re still watching him as best you can over your shoulder, the way he presses his lips to the skin of your back. He seems fixed to leave a mark of a different kind if he can’t carve a piece of himself into you. 

It stings, but it’s a good sting. You let him hear you hiss in pleasure. 

“That’s a good girl,” he says, his grip at your hipbone more insistent. His mouth, despite your blood, doesn’t taste like the wrong side of a fistfight. It’s not sweeter, blood is blood and it is as metallic as any other. But the crotch of his trousers is all of a sudden uncomfortably tight. 

“Micah,” you start. He wants to know why he expects you to tell him he’s doing something wrong again. Habit, he supposes. Experience. But you don’t say any such thing. “I ever tell you how nice that sounds?” 

“Don’t gotta,” he says, his tone bites at you. Micah reaches down to grab the fabric of your skirts, pulling them up past the curve of your rear. “you swooned the first time I said it. Thought you was gonna pass out. Or bleed if I fucked you too hard.” 

“I ain’t a virgin,” you reply but with no malice. “haven’t been for a long time.” 

“With the way you proposition me?” He starts, sliding the fingers not bunched around wool and linen between your thighs. At his insistence, you spread them apart. “No danger of thinkin’ that.” 

“Had to say somethin’ or else you’d really think it was a threat.” You tease. There is a noiseless, crunching feeling in your chest when he says nothing in response to that. “It’s not. You—”

You’re cut off, his fingers have found their way past the seamless crotch of your drawers. They explore insistently, roughly. 

“You know how to make me wish I could scream,” it’s more of a confession than anything, one that you swear makes Micah angrier than more aroused. It’s hard to tell the difference. But he presses his fist down hard into your tailbone. 

“Could scream,” he tells you. But he knows you can’t. The flare-up of anger doesn’t last nearly as long as usual, he’s too hot under the collar for his own good. And deeply unsettled by the quantity of your praise this evening. 

But there’s no denying, in his mind, that you mean it. Because you’re wet and mewling under him in just a few, well-placed circles of the pad of his middle finger. 

He wastes no time gripping at his belt, nearly tearing at his own clothes the way he tore up yours. His nails scratch against his skin as he frees himself, mostly-hard. Micah doesn’t feel cold any more, in fact the air in the tent is nigh-unbearably warm. But he finds a way to stand it. 

Bell slides into you more slowly than you’re used to, you resist the urge to read guilt for the mark on your shoulder into the act. And as if to prove your point, very little of the way he moves after that is gentle. His hips buck hard against yours, drawing moans and cries only barely contained. He pulls at your skirt, at your hips while you clap a hand over your mouth to keep the peace for everyone else. 

He’s quiet, keeping his opinions to himself as he thrusts. Micah’s never been one to shy away from excessive chatter but he’s of the mind that there’s been too much tonight. No, he’d much rather listen to the way you deny yourself any sound at all. He’ll say nothing to get in the way of hearing his name muffled behind your palm. 

“Oh, God,” you said that before and he let it slide. Not again. Micah reaches forward, tangling a rough hand in your hair and giving a sharp pull back. You’re too stunned to make a sound, tilting your head back to ease the not-unpleasant ache that erupts in your scalp. 

Micah holds you there, doesn’t pull every second but long enough to make you realize you like it perhaps more than he. Your cheeks burn, the table underneath you is rough and unforgiving. 

He pulls out like clockwork when he’s close and ensures that you’ll be taking part in laundry chores tomorrow. You suppose you could consider it in a more appealing way, but the heat like coiled nerves is already starting to fade. Micah doesn’t ask if he helped you get anywhere, likely because he doesn’t want to know the answer. 

But you feel satisfied enough, likely’ll be sore in the morning to the betterment of his ego. He loosens his grip on your hair but he doesn’t linger. Micah lets you go, allowing you to stand up. Your chemise falls over your chest and around the loose waistband of your skirt. Turning to Micah, you lean against the table.

He’s putting himself away, buckling things up again and casting glances at the floor. You follow his line of sight to the momentarily-ruined blouse and corset. Isn’t that just the way with him? Ruin that never lasts. 

But you’re not shaking and fearful, you stare at him with a barely-hidden smile still on your face. You motion for him to come closer. Something pulls at his back, a desire to destroy this because it’s so fragile. He feels caught, but relents and shuffles towards you. 

You kiss him, just once and the way it feels is familiar. Goodnight, you say without speaking. You don’t have to, it’s still on your lips. Not tonight, then, he thinks. No goodbye tonight.


End file.
